The problem with cheating

I don't work in the city, I don't do suits. I don't do office drama and drunken Friday night shenanigans with the girls from abc bank/lawyers/brokers.

It is not my scene. Just never has been.

On Friday I was reminded why.

I went into town to join a mate for drinks of the Friday evening office worker type.

On arrival she greeted me with a smile and warm kiss. The sort of kiss in a crowd that says, he is mine ladies so back off.

That is fine, I already knew she was coming home with me so I was more than happy to be owned.

The real sport was in watching a Billy Zane wanna-be get shot down by a bunch of women for being a cheating twat.

You see Billy is engaged, all but one of the girls knew this and the rest were manoeuvring like reef sharks. The girl who didn't know this little detail had been picked up by Billy earlier in the night at another bar. Foolishly he bought his trophy with him to this gathering of friends and acquaintances.

Now there are some simple things about cheating that you learn early in life.

1) you will probably get caught.
2) among women, a cheating man may as well have the pox.
3) among boys, a cheating man is just as likely to be hung out to dry just for the sport of cutting his grass.

The simple solutions are, don't cheat or do it in private. All other options will lead to pain.

Billy must have been a slow learner. The sharks were circling.

The first one darted in for a taste.

"So have you known Billy long?" an innocent smile asked.

I squirmed for Billy, there was blood in the water.

"Do you know him through Julie?"

Ouch. The colour started to drain from his face.

"Um no, Who is Julie?" Billy's mark enquired.

"Oh...no one. Billy can explain." as she backed away.

Billy squirmed. Panic was starting to show in his eyes.

I sat back and got comfortable with drink in hand and wondered how he would escape the inevitable.

Sure enough, another shark, emboldened (or is that embalmed) by cocktails started circling. She had that look that said that if he was going to cheat on his fiancée then it should be with her not that new slapper he just met.

"So what is your fiancée doing tonight? Why isn't Julie here?" the razor sharp teeth gnashed.

"You have a fiancée?" her voice boomed as all nearby conversation lulled.

Like a grenade had been lobbed into the room, people started to dive for cover. There was no etiquette of women and children first, this was a full scale, every man for himself abandon ship.

A few of us sat there transfixed, ready to run but not going to miss a moment. It was the proverbial train wreck.

The interloper stood and straightened her skirt. It was a motion that tried to scream dignity and poise. The shark started to smirk showing teeth like great white. Billy looked around the room for support and found his friends deep in hushed conversation or the tourists like me grinning back like idiots. There was no support. He was a dead man walking.

She turned on one 3.5 inch heel and walked without a word. Billy followed like a scolded puppy dog. Leaving his jacket and manbag.

Like a wave rushing up the beach, conversation resumed but not soon enough to cover the strangled "Just fuck off!" from the street.

We giggled like children at poor Billy. What a tool.

The last shark to have a nibble, grabbed a serviette, scribbled a note and thrust it into his jacket pocket. She would not say what was on it - I can only guess it was either her number or a note to his fiancée....we may never know.

Billy slunk back in. Tail between his legs. The girls all cheered and raised their glasses. Billy sneered, called them cunts and left. They cheered again.

My girl snuggled into my neck and chuckled that there was nothing like front row seats for Friday night theater. I had to agree.

It was all rather funny if you weren't Billy.

The mark of a woman.

I can't remember the last time I got a hickey.

That ugly red bruise, like you have been hit in the neck with a high velocity squash ball.

A mark that screams teenage passion, territorial marking and mischief most recent.

Actually I can remember the last one...it was fucking yesterday.

In a moment of mock rage I suggested she just cock a leg and piss on me if she wanted to mark me...there was a pause as she considered it. A long enough pause that I regretted the suggestion.

Kite surfing, yacht racing and swimming are my only waters ports .

She knows I am a player and this is the price I have to pay. A mark to warn others off I suppose.

Talk about not playing fair.

Devil in the detail

When I was a kid, I was a geeky, Star Wars loving geek king of kid.

Sure I played with death constructing the jump of doom for my trusty BMX. I lobbed my self up and down cliff faces occasionally using a rope and some semblance of safety gear.

I always wandered way too deep into the local bushland to see just where the creek went - and all of this before the days of GPS, mobile phones and parents bubble wrapping their children.

But after all of this fun there were still action figures play war games with in the pile of dirt that was on it's way to being a four car garage.

Unfortunately it was in the home made trenches that my little problem with attention to detail came to the fore.

You see even in the pre computer enhanced, original Star Wars movie there were hundreds of Storm Troopers. Their numbers were obviously a direct response to their inability to shoot straight and see where they were going under those funky helmets.

But Storm Troopers were cool. At least they were cool until you only had one of them in your arsenal of action figures.

You could get away with one Han Solo, one Luke, one Darth Vader, one R3D2 and even one C3P0 - despite the fact that for some reason you had ended up with the 12" high version of the slightly camp gold android when the rest of the cast were only 2.5 inches tall.

All of that was forgivable because after all, there was only ever one of each character in the movie. Storm Troopers however, when all alone are as useful as tits on a bull.

So began the long cycle of paper rounds, begging, borrowing and I have to admit stealing, to build a proper army of Storm Troopers.

I would hate to think how many kids started their life of petty crime at the hands of George Lucas and the seemingly impossible task of getting enough Storm Troopers to have a proper battle.

It got the point that anyone with more than one Storm Trooper was an instant best friend for life if they could bring them over to play. Even the kid with warts and a perpetual sniffle was allowed to join in because he had three.

It was at about the critical mass of four Storm Troopers in my personal collection that disaster struck.

The second Star Wars movie was released, which we now know to be the fifth in the series because George has a problem with time dyslexia and forgot where to start the story...but I digress.

With the Empire Strikes back came a new round of characters and a re-issue of the originals. The problem was that on screen Luke was still a weedy nerd with puppy dog eyes but the action figure looked like he had been on steroids and punching out sets at the gym.

Indeed you only had to look closely to see that everyone had been cast with a six pack and biceps that would be better suited to GI Joe or Conan the Barbarian. It was just wrong. These were not our screen heroes, they were impostors.

Added to that, there were even more Storm Troopers. There were even Storm Troopers fitted out for battle in the snow. It just was not viable to build another platoon and we don't get snow in Sydney. I had to admit defeat.

I did the only thing that a young boy knows how to do best. I destroyed the lot.

Fire works were still being sold in these good old days and one by one my action figures became victims of fire, smoke and acceleration that put them into backyards far from their original home.

Only the over sized C3P0 survived. Too big to launch with all but the most expensive model rocket engines and even to my young mind, sporting the aerodynamics and mass required to randomly to kill anyone within 100 meters once in flight. He had been relegated to be bottom of the toy box long before the purge began.

I found him this week while looking through old stuff I had stored away.

Amazing how one thing can take you back.

How much is that pussy in the window?

The guide books suggest you see other parts of Holland first so that you don't get the wrong idea about the Dutch if you go straight to the red light district in Amsterdam.

Fuck that I say. Goldmember taught me everything I needed to know about these crazy Dutch basrards.

All I needed now was to do some window shopping.

Making the most of existing connections, I spent the majority of the day cruising from pub to pub in a mates boat before setting in and waiting for dark to fall and the gawking familys to finish their tour of the red light district.

With darkness not really kicking in until 11pm, it was a lot of beer before the night life really got going.

Walking the streets of the Rossebuurt felt safe and clean. The sex shops were like any other in the world with the only advantage to making a purchase here being the joy of a bag search in Sydney when coming home.

The scene from Fight Club about "the vibrator, not your vibrator...." when discussing humming luggage came to mind.

The icons of the red light district are the prostitutes in the windows.

Most look sad and tired. They stand and bounce and jiggle with cigarette in hand, swim suite or knickers glowing with the red hue of the neon lights.

Every now and then one will tap their window,wink and beckon but nothing about it felt sexy or appealing.

Just when I thought it was time to head back to a pub and seek out more interesting and fully clothed company for the night, I saw a face that actually stopped me in my tracks.

She looked familiar in some way and in my brief pause she obviously thought she had a customer.

She opened her glass door and asked if I liked what I saw.

"Actually,for a moment I thought I knew you."
"Well,you always can get to know me..."
"Yeah, I suppose that is how it works"

I grinned back like an idiot. Her smile felt genuine and held me for a moment longer.

I don't really know how but as she leaned against the door frame we got chatting. Early on I made it clear I was not buying but she did not care, she was up for a chat.

She was smart, educated and well travelled. She had worked at home and came here for a change and some quick cash.

Tourists were stopping to watch. Curious if they were going to see a John walk through the door, to see what happens next.

After a while I quipped that I should let her get back to work, she smiled and thanked me for the chat.

The smile made me melt a little more and wonder what her future held.

Back in a pub later that night, a bunch of English girls were making a ton of noise. It became obvious that a dare was being organised and I was part of it.

Eventually the looser approached.

"We saw you talking to the hooker...did you do IT?"
"Ha ha, no she is my sister, I was just checking on her" I replied.

Needless to say that got me to their table with another pint of beer and that is about all I remember from the night.

Digital monkey

I am the first to admit that I am a geek and early adopter of technology. I would however say that I tend to watch, wait and research a product until I know it will do what i need and in a fashion that meets my expectations.

This post for example is being written on my new phone, the HTC Magic while I sit at the airport ready for another jaunt to Europe.

Some have dubbed it the iPhone killer, for me it was more that it was an open architecture operating system and not locked down like the Apple offering.

You see I am all about choice. Having the option to to do as I please is everything and the older I get the more important that seems to be.

Clever things along with clever people make me happy and as such I tend to seek them out.

Choice however seems to be expensive. Yet another relationship has crashed and burned because I can't slowdown. It is a bit harsh to say she could not keep up so I will keep that thought to myself for now....

Anyhow, life is full and my flight is being called. I am on the lookout again for female fun so we will see what Europe has on offer...

I'm a half twit

In the interests of riding another techno fad wave face first into the shallow shore break of the internasty I have joined Twatter to find out what all the fuss is about.

So far it seems that the number of people on it does not match the hype and surprise, surprise, the updates are just as banal and silly as those on crackbook.

Despite all this, I shall persist for a little while longer as I can at least get a blow by blow update of how many Johns have passed through the Shrinking Kitty poon shop in the past five minutes.

With the amount of creative energy I have right now, 160 characters is probably the perfect length for me to express myself in too.

Come tweet my twateer here : http://twitter.com/Josh_Monkey

I don't understand.

I have a dance partner and a lover.

One was born about the time I finished school and knows none of my silly music, life or film references.

She has an eternity of growing up to do, none of which I want to carry her through.

She is slim and petite but almost too much so for my carnal tastes.

She lacks the self assured sexuality I desire despite being able to turn on just enough to make the judges happy. Especially the dirty old ones that enjoy rolling their eyes over her naked navel.

Meanwhile I give myself to my lover, expose myself to hurt and disappointment. I give her a key to my house where she can seek refuge and live in my space for a weekend, explore and find out who I am with out my censorship.

Watch my porn, read my books, check under every rock and behind every closed door to see who I am. I feel naked and probed but content that I can be so open about who I am.

A thousand kilometers distant we pour months of hard work onto the dance floor and are rewarded with results exceeding our honest expectations. The one person I wanted to share it with is not there and she is told this again and again.

Yet all this trust and love is met with jealous accusations. Twice in two weeks now.

We do spend an insane amount of time in each others company, generally in a close embrace with our sweat, blood and tears mixing. We finish each others sentences like and old married couple and could get an Olympic medal for long jump when it comes to crossing the line in our private jokes.

Yet we go home to the ones we love, know that we are not connected that way and never will be.

I need her to understand that or it will all end.